I walk through boroughs of glass and steel, Where every dream seems signed and sealed. Each gaze ignites a glowing spark, As if these streets had lit the dark.

In every shout from market stalls, In every pulse through shaking pubs. No chains remain, no voices lead, Just every runner chasing speed.

The sirens blaze in midnight rain, While protest echoes down the Lane. And shadows touch St. Paul’s with grace, A crownless soul in timeless place.

Here history walks with beaten boots, With wilds vibes and tube-line suits. Each right was born from aching breath, Each law from fire, each peace from death.

Still she shines, this tired queen, With cracks of gold and roots unseen. A flame, a fog, a raising song. Cold and wet but never wrong.